Every Spot's A Mystery Spot
by si-star-x
Summary: Set during Mystery Spot. After Dean's first 'death', Sam wakes up in the motel room but Dean wakes up in a hospital in a town he does not recognise.


The crappy effects.

The amateur mind tricks.

The shark head on the wall.

The owner.

The accusations.

The gun.

The shitty attempt at resolving the situation.

The pain.

The bright light.

It was all there. Every moment that appeared to lead to his demise. He was swimming alongside these various images and memories as a clinical scent attacked his senses and forced him into consciousness.

Dean's eyes opened in a flash, eyelids held taught against the strain of keeping them ridiculously wide. He wasn't dead. He was in a hospital. Son of a bitch must have put in a damn awful shot.

He felt a strange combination of nausea and hunger. His stomach couldn't quite decide whether it wanted to be filled or emptied. The smell of the hospital didn't do much to encourage him to eat, and Dean mentally figured that if he had a burger in front of him right now, it wouldn't stay down for long. As he imagined the succulent meat in his mouth, his stomach clenched involuntary and he was fairly close to gagging. He briefly closed his eyes and willed the feeling away. No food just yet.

His tongue seemed to be stuck to the bottom of his mouth and it took every effort to lift it in order to speak.

"Sam?" He spoke out loud, wincing at the gruffness of his voice and the dryness of his throat.

There was no response to his vocalised question. Sam clearly wasn't there. There were possibly a hundred other voices assaulting his tender ears, but not that of his annoying, gargantuan younger brother.

Dean glanced around the tiny cubicle and let out a groan as the movement caused his head to flare in a painful attack. It was strange how his head hurt and not his chest. There must have been some serious damage done by that nasty shotgun.

He coughed tentatively, figuring that the action would cause the injury to show itself. Nope, it felt fine. The only pain came from his dry throat which the cough had to come through.

Dean lifted up the thin blue blanket that had been draped over his body and poked at his chest. Nothing. He pulled down his shirt to inspect his torso and again, nothing. Nothing but old scars. He noticed the band on his wrist and squinted to read the writing. His head really was hurting and it caused his vision to swim. 'Dean Winchester' it read.

"What the hell?"

As he stared at the hospital wristband, he wondered why the on earth he had given his real name.

Before he could ponder more thoughts, the curtain opened with a swish and a short man wearing scrubs stepped in. He picked up the clipboard and glanced at it for a minute before even attempting to make eye contact with his patient.

"Hello?" Dean prompted, wincing as his voice pierced through his skull and caused an onslaught of pain yet again.

The man looked up over a pair of half-moon spectacles and nodded his head several times before commencing with what he had to say.

"You're free to leave."

"Oh." Dean raised his eyebrows. "That's fantastic news, I'm sure." He squinted again as he gazed at the man. "But what the hell happened to me?"

The man lifted the clipboard up once again and skimmed the writing.

"Is my brother here?"

Dean was quickly losing patience with this guy.

"Dude?" He prompted again as the man continued to stare at the notes.

"You got a concussion." The guy shrugged, "I've just come on duty. I don't know who's who."

Dean figured he had to be an orderly rather than a qualified doctor considering his lousy bedside manner.

"You don't need to keep me overnight?" Dean raised an eyebrow. He had enough experience with concussions and thought it meant the standard: twenty four hours of being woken up intermittently to check everything was fine and dandy. At least, that's always the spiel he and Sam abide by. Perhaps it was medical jargon taken too literally and followed with due diligence when actually it wasn't necessary. But hell, he wasn't going to complain about not having to stay in the place.

"I'd love to chat, Dean," The man spoke with a heavy sigh, "But I just need you to sign the discharge papers and then you're good to go."

As much as Dean disliked hospitals, when he was there he expected them to at least do their job. He was under the impression that nurses had to listen to you whine, then prescribe you some drugs to shut you up. Perhaps not in this town.

Speaking of which, Dean had absolutely no idea where he was. Something wasn't quite right with the whole situation and it made him question if last night actually happened. He sure wasn't all shot up like he'd expected and he was fairly sure that he and Sam hadn't ganked any mystery spot demons.

Dean really didn't feel optimistic in asking the hospital guy any more questions. His head was pulsing in continuous pain and his vision wouldn't quite focus properly. He had a strong feeling that if he asked the guy about the mystery spot or what events lead to the hospital admission, there would be little or no hesitation in sending him to the mental ward.

He also guessed that he probably shouldn't be discharged so soon. However, he wasn't prepared to be poked, prodded and stabbed by hospital workers and then just be told 'yes, you're still concussed'. He'd deal with it himself.

Dean made an attempt to pull himself up into a sitting position, stifling a groan as he did so. His hand shot to his forehead as the pain sparked and he felt gauze covering the left side.

"You had some stitches." The guy shrugged, "Probably won't even leave much of a scar."

"Right." Dean agreed without really listening. "Where do I sign?"

The guy stepped forward and held the clipboard out. He didn't speak, just pointed and held out a pen.

Dean stared at the guy incredulously. They obviously just needed the hospital bed for some other poor guy who was injured, but it was no doubt against hospital policy to state those facts so bluntly.

He still couldn't focus his vision and his coordination was off enough to mean he could barely grab the pen. He haphazardly squiggled on the paper where he thought the dotted line was.

"You can take some paracetamol for the headache." The guy suggested, "Do you need a hand getting up?"

Dean definitely didn't want this sub-par orderly-come-jerk touching him. He twisted his body and swung both legs off the hospital bed. Standing came surprisingly easy and although dizziness quickly overtook him, he managed to remain upright without having to hold onto anything for support.

"I'm good."

It was no surprise to Dean when he left the building that he became even more disoriented. The hospital was not one he had ever seen before, and there certainly wasn't a black '67 Impala waiting for him out front.

As he felt in his pockets, it quickly came apparent that whatever the hell had happened meant that he had lost all of his possessions. He had no cell phone, no wallet, no fake ID, no motel keys. Nothing. Nadda. Zilch.

Dean knew he was screwed.


End file.
